Bittersweet
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: Bonnie decides that she really, really doesn't like Michael's nickname for her. One-shot.


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AN: Inspired by a bit of dialogue. Knight Rider and all related characters belong to Mr. Larson. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

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Bittersweet

By The Lady Razorsharp

"See ya, Bon-bon."

Bonnie looked up with a frown as Michael breezed through the door and into the repair bay of the trailer. KITT's driver's-side door was already ajar, and the lanky driver pulled it open and flung himself into the seat with an economy of movement that bespoke how many times he'd done so. As the doors opened and the ramp lowered, the Trans Am's powerful engine rumbled to life, and the car slid backwards onto the highway. With a screech of tires, the car threw itself into a spectacular u-turn worthy of a stunt show and headed off into the distance.

_Bon-bon?_

She made a face. Trust Michael to come up with that one.

She supposed she should take it as a sign that he liked her. She supposed it meant that she was part of this strange little family, the nerdy kid sister to the handsome, dashing older brother.

Sometimes she took the time to look at him—really look at him—as he rushed off, and she was never surprised by what she saw: A trained hunter, on the trail of his prey, following his nose into and out of trouble. With a snort, she supposed that Devon was the one in the proverbial red coat, sounding the _view halloo_, setting Michael on the scent like some prize foxhound.

What did that make KITT? Was he the trained steed, expertly carrying the hunter over uneven terrain, doggedly following the quarry until it ran to ground?

She chuckled at the images that came unbidden into her mind: Devon on a horse, galloping after Michael and KITT as the car crashed through the underbrush of an English forest.

"Oookay," she said to herself. "Focus, Barstow." The images retreated, and she turned back to her work.

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"See ya, Bon-bon."

There it was again, that flippant shortening of her name; that taking of her personal identity and reflecting it back to her through the mirror of Michael's aquamarine eyes.

She allowed herself a mirthless smile. Those eyes were the only hint of Michael Long that she would ever see. She wondered what he looked like, in his previous life. Her security clearance was pretty high, she mused; she could probably look in his file and see the surveillance photographs Wilton Knight had collected of his soon-to-be surrogate son, as well as detailed information about the reconstruction of Long's damaged face.

She knew the basics of the story from Devon. Michael had never talked about it (no surprise there, she thought). She really didn't want to know all the details, but it didn't take much imagination for her to see that night in her mind's eye: A defiant Michael standing in the glare of a Trans Am's headlights; the hateful gaze of a woman who had everything to gain by putting a bullet through his skull. Moonlight glinting on the gun; dust swirling in the balmy night. Then a blinding flash, and Michael falling, Michael hitting the hood with a hollow thud of flesh against metal, Michael toppling to the dusty ground, his face a bloody ruin.

The image was so vivid that she flinched. The socket wrench in her hand fell to the floor of the semi with a metallic clatter, and she bent to pick it up.

"Bonnie?"

She nearly jumped out of her coveralls. With a gasp, she dropped the wrench again and whirled to face the voice.

Michael. She'd forgotten he was standing there, that his words had sent her imagination sprinting away without her.

He bent to retrieve the wrench. "Here you go." When she didn't take it, he laid it on the workbench. A quizzical smile played around the edges of his mouth. "What's _that_ look for?"

She felt her hand rising to touch his cheek of its own accord. To her surprise, he didn't flinch when her fingers met his cheekbone.

The surgeons had been the best; Wilton had seen to that. Her fingers slipped behind Michael's ear, and found only a fine line of scar tissue hidden in his dark brown curls.

His brows drew together, and he raised his hand to remove hers from the scar. They stood for a moment, hand in hand, eyes locked.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

"Yeah," she heard herself say. "Michael, do me a favor, will you?"

He smiled and squeezed her fingers gently. "What do you need?"

She pulled her hand away. "Please don't call me 'Bon-bon'."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Okay."

"Thanks." She turned her back on him. "I've…got to get back to work."

He walked past her, boots thumping on the metal floor. "Yeah, I'll, uh…I'll let you get back to work. We've got to get going, too."

She kept her eyes on the bit of machinery under the tip of her screwdriver as he crossed to KITT's driver-side door.

"See you…Bonnie."

The door _whumped_ shut, and then KITT's engine came to life with a throaty rumble that shook the walls of the semi. With a metallic hiss, the sleek car backed out of the open door at the end of the trailer, fishtailed its way through a u-turn, and sped off down the road.

With a smile on her face, she listened until she could no longer hear the turbine, and then turned her attention back to her task.

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Normally, Michael liked to drive for the first few hours of a mission before letting KITT take over, but today he let KITT stay in auto cruise. He couldn't get Bonnie's expression out of his mind. He hadn't just startled her; she looked like she'd seen a ghost.

He rubbed the scar behind his ear, remembering the way her calloused hands had suddenly turned so gentle. What was _that_ all about?

"I wouldn't know," answered KITT, and it was only then that Michael realized he'd asked the question aloud. "Bonnie doesn't seem quite herself today."

Michael squinted in thought at the white dividing line stretching off into the distance. "Well, pal, that's women for you. Don't strain your circuits trying to figure them out, because you never will."

He fell silent, and KITT drove on.

--End--


End file.
